When You Find You
by Malikai-Flame
Summary: Three years since Sherlock's death. Three years without the person who made John feel so alive. Now three years are up, and someone threatens to know the exact whereabouts of one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This someone, who demands to be known as "Mr. Moran", sends John on a desperate chase to find his colleague. Deductions and doubt all lead John to his best friend. Eventually- S/J
1. Warehouse

The gravel road crunched under the wheels of the taxi as it pulled to a quick park. John's deductions had led him to here, but "here" was in the middle of nowhere. The sunlight blazed with such an intense glare that John had to block his eyes in order to avoid any damage. Eyes adjusted and on red alert, John began to take in his surroundings. Straight ahead was a giant warehouse. The paint, or at least what was left of it, had obviously lived its life. All the same, it was clear that it flakes left fought with all of their might to remain in place.

"_Slightly cliché, no, Mr. Moran?" _ John thought sarcastically. He may have found some comfort in his pitiful attempt to lighten the mood to himself, if every moment to this point hadn't been filled with dread.

John paid the cabbie and trotted to the entrance. Dread accompanied him close behind, as close as his own shadow. John got to the doors and leaned against the side. With his gun drawn, he braced himself for whatever was next. With a little encouragement from his foot, the doors slammed open with a great force and John soldiered into battle. However, all that greeted him was a warm draft of trapped air that fled to the outside world.

The first thing John noticed when he walked into the warehouse was the smell. The air was stale. In contrast to the radiating light outside, the warehouse was dark and ominous. John's eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet, but his senses had already confirmed his worse fear. Sherlock _was _alive, and he was here. John's insides screamed for another explanation, but he knew that this had to be the truth.

This "Mr. Moran" character could have anyone. Surely John's obsessive humanity preceded him. Ever since Sherlock…. did….. whatever the hell he did, John worked nonstop to help anyone who appeared to need it. Three years since the fall and John still refused to leave the suicide hotline. Lestrade continuously insisted that he find a new "hobby".

Perhaps this was his way of showing John that there is no hope. Maybe someone just wanted to play a sick joke. Donovan had always resented Sherlock…

John bowed his head and sighed. Of course none of that was possible. All of it was, completely out of character, completely delusional. No one in John's life would play this type of mind game with him. Daily torment was all John had to look forward to each morning. Lestrade knew that. Donovan knew that. Everyone knew that. So why, after three years of constant pain, would anyone bring Sherlock's memory back to a searing awareness? To make John suffer. To make John deteriorate. It had to be someone John didn't know directly. It had to be a "Mr. Moran".

John choked in a sob. Although John had always prayed to have Sherlock back, if this was the way, John wanted his prayer to be forever unanswered.

John cocked his gun and proceeded past the threshold.

All of John's service in Afghanistan couldn't have possibly prepared him for what he saw.


	2. Denial

Blood. John saw blood. Whoever had been in here sustained a huge amount of torture. It had to be from multiple days. Weeks even. Whoever Mr. Moran was, he had to be a psychopath. That scared John the most.

John may not have been any Sherlock Holmes, but he knew his assumptions couldn't be wrong. Exactly eight days ago, Mrs. Hudson called John at his new address. John had moved out a week after the fall, he couldn't stand being there anymore. He had tried, for Mrs. Hudson's sake. However, he knew that if he stayed, he would be doing more harm to Mrs. Hudson than if he left. She was frantic and her voice wavered as she sobbed. She had received a package from an anonymous source.

The finger that arrived on Mrs. Hudson's doorstep was professionally identified as Sherlock's. It was even calloused from his constant violin playing. From there the only way to confirm it was to look at Sherlock's body. Struggling with moral dilemmas, John and Lestrade's division raced to Sherlock's grave. Three years ago, John swore to himself that he would never go back. Now he dreaded every second it took for them to get there.

When Sherlock's coffin was dug up, John kept a straight face for everyone around him. Out of his peripheral vision, he could tell that every eye was on him and how he would react. He made sure he appeared complacent; he made sure that no one could see his mind imploding in anguish. He figured he had to be near perfect in this area by now; he had been polishing the act for years. Then the terrible moment arrived. John both feared it and needed it. He needed to see Sherlock's body in there. He needed to know that Sherlock was truly dead. Alas, when the coffin was forced open, Lestrade leaned over it in haste. When his face resurfaced, it showed nothing but pure and genuine disbelief. The person inside wasn't Sherlock in any way, shape, or form. It wasn't even a real person, it was a doll. It was dressed in all of Sherlock's wears and it was the perfect height. John felt himself cringe and he knew that his act was coming to an abrupt end. Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson stepped back and let John wail. John remembered every second of that day with crystal clarity. He remembered the hope, he remembered the relief, but most of all, he remembered the anger. Three years, and for what? Just as quickly as his reaction began, John straightened up, wiped his face, and figured on what to do next.

The only person who had the means to replace Sherlock's body had to be someone who placed him in the casket before the funeral. Molly. Molly Hooper that's who. Sherlock could've easily convinced Molly to do something like this for him. Molly would do anything for Sherlock. When John confronted Molly she stumbled all over herself (more than she usually does, to be fair). She dodged John's gazed when juggling vials. Pretending to be occupied with her microscope was also a tell-tale sign. She couldn't look John in the face. Her actions said it all.

John's knees buckled from the reality of the situation. He fell to the ground and brought his hand to his face. There was a sudden and piercing pain that suddenly appeared from his would from Afghanistan. His hand clutched onto his burning shoulder.

_"Dammit John, you know there's no way your shoulder still hurts. Get up. Get up!"_ John muttered through his clenched teeth. He drew a deep breath and brought his hand to eye level. His hand was coated in crimson. It wasn't just a memory, he had been shot.

"John." a weak voice uttered from the shadows, "John….. please…. Please leave."

Though blinded by pain, John looked up to see the face he had dreamed about for three years. It was the last thing he saw before his body fell to the ground and he lost consciousness.


	3. Mr Moran

When John's eyes opened again, he wished he hadn't.

Sherlock looked exactly as John had last seen him, covered in his own blood.

His hands were bound to the edges of a slab, along with his feet. It was clear that his wrists had been under an immense amount of friction. Layers of skin had been rubbed off and only raw flesh remained. Sherlock had to have been tied for days to have wounds that deep. The rope itself was red from the magnitude of blood it had soaked up. Sherlock's hands were clenched and Sherlock's missing finger was prominent from John's position.

John took a deep breath and looked upwards in an attempt to keep his oncoming tears from breaking loose. Once he knew he was back in control, he dared to look farther.

Sherlock's hair was caked with blood. However, by the texture it had to be dry. It had to be a head injury from a while ago. His torso was black and blue. There were areas of swelling, making it clear to John that multiple ribs were broken. Sherlock coughed, clearly causing searing pain to radiate throughout his body. Sherlock flinched as his broken bones scraped against the inner lining of his torso and released a choked groan.

Coming from Sherlock, it was the worse noise John had ever heard.

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John whipped his head to meet Sherlock's unexpected, but intense stare. Those blue eyes. John never thought he would see them again. They silently sent pleading messages that went right through John's soul.

"Sherlock." John whispered.

"John." Sherlock groaned. Tears were falling down his face. They followed a cleared path through the dried blood down his cheeks. This defiantly couldn't have been the first time Sherlock had cried, and that sent flares of anger through John.

"I see you admire my handiwork."

Sherlock violently cringed at the sound of the new voice.

A thin, but extremely fit, man came out from behind the shadows. John was paralyzed with fear and realization. He knew he was looking into the face of Mr. Moran.


	4. Masterpiece

"This is my best work yet. A real piece of art, no?" Mr. Moran came up to Sherlock's slab and gently stroked Sherlock's face. Sherlock whimpered as the man's fingers softly followed his cheekbones.

That sound ignited a rage in John that he had never known existed. He lunged at the man, only to be stopped by his own restraints.

"Humorous, is it not, my dear Mr. Holmes? That art created by mortal men can create such passion within the hearts of the viewers?" Mr. Moran playfully jabbed Sherlock's side as he spoke. Mr. Moran bit his lip with anticipation. Sherlock fought against his restraints desperately.

"STOP!," John yelped through his closed off throat. "Please, please stop!"

"Do you want to hear my art sing, Doctor? I've trained it well. Oh yes, at first it may be hard to discipline. It may struggle against the artist's will, but a blank canvas is a blank canvas. You have to break it, carve it, and make it do whatever you want. I force my art to sing." Mr. Moran pulled out a knife, worn from use, and slowly dragged it across Sherlock's leg. Sherlock's hands clenched as he muffled a scream. John could see fresh blood drip from Sherlock's exposed leg. Mr. Moran clicked his tongue with disappointment.

"A little camera shy, Mr. Holmes? Your audience is waiting! We've been rehearsing for weeks! This is your big performance."

Mr. Moran raised his head to look at John.

"I think he needs a little encouragement, don't you Doctor?" Mr. Moran winked. He spun around, sunk the knife into Sherlock's calf, and twisted it hard.


	5. Eternity

Sherlock's screech filled the entire warehouse. John watched in horror as Sherlock writhed in agony. Sherlock's back arched severely as his eyes widened in pain.

Mr. Moran let the screaming continue for what seemed like an eternity. Then, when it appeared he was satisfied, he ripped the knife out. Although Sherlock's shrieking stopped instantly, remainders of it echoed off of the bare walls for seconds longer. Sherlock's stomach heaved as he tried to regain control. After a minute or so passed, he took a final deep breath and turned away from John, as if to hide the last few seconds from him. John knew better. He knew that the memory would never leave.

"Bravo, Mr. Holmes! Five stars, a true performance!" Mr. Moran spun on his heels to face John and clapped. John's only thought was to tear Mr. Moran apart, to make him writhe in pain.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, "Sherlock, look at me! Please!" Sherlock dutifully turned his head and gazed into John's eyes. Hot tears drenched John's face as Mr. Moran came up behind John and began to trace John's neck. Sherlock's eyes snapped up to watch Mr. Moran's fingers.

John flinched away, only to be caught by Mr. Moran's other hand waiting on the other side.

"Don't touch me, you bastard." John hissed.

"Shh. Save your voice, Doctor. Mr. Holmes, to tell you the truth, I've always wanted to direct a duet. I think the good doctor's voice would match yours perfectly." Mr. Moran smirked at Sherlock menacingly and made sure he saw Mr. Moran's hand so close to John's exposed neck.

Sherlock cringed and physically braced himself for what he said next.

"Go to Hell." Sherlock strained through clenched teeth.

Mr. Moran stopped caressing John's face. He strode to Sherlock with a frightening focus, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and thrust Sherlock's head onto the slab.

"I AM IN HELL!" Mr. Moran screamed. "Three years of it. I am nothing. NOTHING without Jim. The only person I ever let in. The only man I've ever cared for. And YOU TOOK HIM AWAY FROM ME!"

"Moriarty?" John yelled. "Three years and I still have to bask in his ugly shadow? That's what this is? Some sort of revenge?"

Mr. Moran ignored John and continued to keep his attention fixed on Sherlock. Sherlock fixed his eyes on John. Mr. Moran noticed and smirked.

"Oh I see, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Moran sneered. "Yes, for the past few weeks, you have been my fixation. I get it now. Provoke me and keep your darling doctor safe. No. No Mr. Holmes. It was a nice attempt though. I almost fell for it too."

Mr. Moran returned his attention back to John. "To answer your question, Doctor Watson, this is much more than revenge." He stuck his face right next to John's and whispered, "This is justice." Mr. Moran made direct eye contact with John and John could see the menacing ideas projecting out of Mr. Moran's eyes.

"Enough chat, Doctor." Mr. Moran said as he returned to his previous position behind John. "You are a pawn. No one cares for your well-being here, besides Mr. Holmes. And this is a transaction between him and me."


	6. Haunting

"I had to watch my hero fall, Mr. Holmes. Damn you, you dirty monster." Mr. Moran spat. He choked on his tears as he continued, "By God I will make you do the same." Moran made a thin slice on the base of John's neck as he spoke. John yelped out of surprise.

"He killed himself! Listen to me! The truth won't change whether John is here or not!" Sherlock bellowed. "He put the gun to his own twisted head and shot himself!"

"You may not have pulled the trigger, Mr. Holmes, but you're the reason he's dead! He was obsessed with you, by God, I swear the man loved you. He loved you and not me! You never did anything for him! I did everything!" Moran clutched his knife and doubled over in emotional destruction. "I am NOT boring."

Moran circled back to John. He sneered in contempt and raised his knife. "I apologize in advance for the end result of my work. I'm afraid this masterpiece will be a bit messier than the first."

"NO! JOHN!" Sherlock fought against his restraints with every fiber of his being. Although Sherlock's bonds were looser from weeks of resistance, they held strong. It was a game they played. Give an inch, take back two. Sherlock bellowed with desperate frustration, but to no advantage. The ropes held their position.

John gazed past Mr. Moran to look at Sherlock. He held his gaze until he caught Sherlock's eye and Sherlock looked back.

"Keep your eyes on me, Sherlock. Please." The words hurt, but John had to force them out. He knew they were the only thing that could get Sherlock's mind to pay attention at this point.

Just as John had predicted, those words stopped Sherlock in his tracks.

"Don't make me, John. Don't make me watch you die."

John's tears blurred his vision, but Sherlock's face stayed clear. Not physically, but defiantly in his mind. John had created his own "Mind Palace", and like Sherlock had taught him, with it you never forget anything- even if you've prayed to make something disappear. Yes, he knew what that face looked like. It was his face, three years ago, after the fall. The face that taunted his nights, mocked his sanity, and stalked his footsteps. It was burned into his palace walls. Dammit, it was his kingdom's emblem. It was the face of utter dread.

John closed his eyes and let his last tears fall. He refused to let anything but Sherlock be the last thing he saw.

Moran placed the knife above John's heart, "Goodbye, Doctor. Thank you for your contribution."

"NO!" Sherlock wailed.


	7. Reunion

A sing-song voice pierced through Sherlock's plea.

"Sto-op"

John's eyes flashed open. "It can't be…." he thought.

Moriarty seemingly manifested out of the shadows and into the room.

"Great gallery, Sebastian. Your taste in art is exquisite. You learned well.

There was a stunned silence. Stunned, Moran dropped his knife and ran to Moriarty's side. Sherlock and John, by this point, were completely forgotten. He fell to his knees in disbelief.

"Jim, it… it can't…. how?" Moran sputtered.

With genuine fury in his eyes, Moriarty slapped Moran with what seemed like little effort, but the sound of the impact contradicted the appearance of the force. John tore his eyes away from them and, in vain, tried to get out of his bondage.

"Oh dear. Have we lost our manners already? I will be properly addressed, Sebastian. A three year's absence does not excuse that."

Moran's head bowed in shame.

Moriarty quickly became bored and shifted his attention to Sherlock and John.

A smile danced across his lips as he walked up to Sherlock. Moriarty examined Moran's work, and then raised his hand, as if to place it on Sherlock.

"Don't you dare." John growled.

Moriarty regarded John's threat with a smirk and gently put his hand on Sherlock's bare chest.

"I saw you die." Sherlock whispered. His eyes fought to stay open; his body would go limp and then stiffen in attempt to refocus Sherlock's efforts to stay attentive. John knew his energy was rapidly draining. He couldn't let Sherlock lose consciousness. If he did, Sherlock might never wake up.

"Same goes for me." Moriarty sang, "But it looks like I turned out better than you."

Sherlock sighed and turned his head away from Moriarty. He was almost gone. Moriarty seemed to sense it too.

"I see we won't get a very stimulating conversation from Sherlock today, will we Johnny? Honestly, Sherlock. I have no use for you if you're going to be like this."

Without waiting for a reply, Moriarty barked to Moran, "Sebastian. Hand me your knife."

Moran jumped up, pitifully eager to redeem himself from his earlier blunder. Within moments, the knife was in Moriarty's hands.

Sherlock's ropes were cut, but Sherlock didn't move. He was too weak. The only reaction was to the sound of the ropes being cut. Sherlock's eyes slowly opened to look at his mangled wrists, then to Moriarty.

Moriarty, knowing that there was absolutely no danger from Sherlock's end, softly brushed one of Sherlock's curl off of his drenched forehead and leaned over so that Sherlock, as well as John, could hear, "I look forward to our next little game. It's YEARS overdue!"

Moriarty turned away from Sherlock one last time and snapped, "Let's go Sebastian!"

Moran jumped to his feet and trailed behind Moriarty.

Moriarty got to the warehouse entrance and, without, looking back, nonchalantly flicked his hand and sang, "Too-da-loo!"

The doors creaked shut and Sherlock and John were engulfed in the darkness.


End file.
